


The Sound of a New Violin

by thursjournal



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clones, M/M, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursjournal/pseuds/thursjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks the clones are his least favorite of Sherlock's experiments, but they might just have something important to teach him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 15 Bingo Card 4 Trope "clones." 
> 
> i owe a huge thanks to [caitlin fairchild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild) for her helpful beta and porn cheerleading. i should also thank [thunder-lock](thunder-lock.tumblr.com) for listening to my crazy idea and encouraging me to write it in the first place.

John made his way around the kitchen table strewn with microscopes and test tubes, past the two identical Sherlocks leaning intently over a petri dish. He set the kettle to boil and watched as Sherlock counted the disgusting looking spots in the gel while the Other Sherlock looked eagerly over his shoulder. 

John frowned.“Do you have to do that where I eat?” he asked. 

Neither Sherlock acknowledged him as he carried his tea into the living room. John stopped short by his chair, which was occupied by his own clone. He narrowed his eyes as the Other John casually turned the page of the newspaper he was holding. It was an unsettling scene, like having an out of body experience. The man in the chair looked exactly like John, with the exception of a small tattoo on his neck with the logo of the lab. ‘Hamish’ was inked below the identification number. Sherlock had taken such joy in naming the clones. Although it wasn’t visible, he knew the Other John was different than him in one other capacity, lacking the jagged scar on its left shoulder. John was reminded of a new toy soldier, fresh out of the box. He gripped his mug a little tighter. 

“Aren’t they supposed to be in their own flat downstairs?” he called to Sherlock. 

Both Sherlocks looked up from their experiment.

“Sherrinford is getting excellent results on his mold study,” Sherlock beamed. “I think he may have found a small colony of _Stachybotrys chartarum_ near the water pipes in 221C.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will be thrilled,” John deadpanned as he glared at the Other John. Hamish finally sighed and relented the seat, moving to the couch. 

John settled into his chair with a triumphant look after snatching up the newspaper. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherrinford join Hamish on the couch, the two men crowding close to look at something on the laptop. As they were reading, Sherrinford’s hand rested on Hamish’s thigh. 

John turned his attention back to the paper. He found the clones’ ease with physical contact disconcerting. Under Sherlock’s care they had been encouraged to explore their new lives freely, including touch. It shouldn’t have surprised John, because Sherlock was a fairly physical person, when he thought about it. He could remember all the times he’d been grabbed, pulled, and spun at Sherlock’s hand.

On the couch, the clones had abandoned the laptop and lay stretched out, Hamish resting his chin on Sherrinford’s chest as they chatted easily about nothing in particular. 

It wasn’t that John didn’t enjoy intimacy. But his childhood had been an inconsistent swing between cold neglect and smothering over-compensation. As an adult he found his strength in the practical, wielding the clinical hands of a doctor and soldier. After the war, the pain of his injury and the strain of losing his abilities had only magnified the lesser qualities of his personality. As his temper grew shorter and his patience thinner, his company and his touch were no longer a comfort to anyone. When he looked at Hamish and the natural way he connected with Sherrinford, John saw the absence of all his own physical and mental scars. 

Across the room, the clones were lost in their own world. Sherrinford kissed Hamish lazily, who in turn ran a searching hand beneath Sherrinford’s dressing gown. 

Finally John dropped the paper and turned to Sherlock. 

“Do they have to do that in the living room?” he demanded.

Sherlock peered around the corner and shrugged. “Why do you care?”

“Why do I care?” John asked incredulously. “Why do I care about watching myself snog my flatmate at half past 9 in the morning?”

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh. “John, the clone is an exact genetic replica of you. He’s not actually YOU.”

The clones had momentarily ceased their groping to listen to the discussion, looking for all the world like an artistic study in debauchery. John stared at his doppelganger on the couch. “I know he’s not me. He’s - “

_not broken_

“- a lot better at getting laid, apparently,” John said dryly. He stood and walked towards the door, grabbing his coat from the hook on the way past and pounding down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so much better (and more explicit) thanks to [caitlin fairchild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild)

Sherlock stared at John’s vacated chair for several minutes, lost in thought. Finally Sherrinford appeared by his side. 

“Are you...alright?” Sherrinford asked. 

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug. Sherrinford leaned down and kissed him softly on the top of the head.

“I’m sorry,” Sherrinford whispered. “Maybe he’ll come around one day.”

Taking Sherlock gently by the wrist, he asked softly, “Do you want to join us?” 

Sherlock gave a small shake of the head. “Not this time.”

Sherrinford let go of Sherlock and moved to the armchair by the fireplace. 

“Suit yourself,” Hamish said as he settled into John’s chair. Sherlock carried over one of the straight backed kitchen chairs and set it facing the clones, but slightly apart. He steepled his fingers and took several deep breaths. 

Hamish’s eyes were dark and steely. He leaned forward and pulled Sherrinford towards him, running his fingers through dark curls and kissing him slowly. 

“Is this what you want?” Sherrinford asked Hamish, his voice low. 

“Yes,” Hamish breathed into the small space between them. He leaned back and Sherrinford followed, sliding out of the chair and onto his knees. His long fingers wrestled Hamish out of his trousers and pants. Sherrinford gave a warm smile and then lowered his head, taking Hamish’s cock slowly into his mouth. 

Sherlock felt his pulse race and a warm hardening in his own pants. He adjusted himself through his trousers and steepled his fingers under his chin again. 

Hamish strained his hips forward, trying to push himself further in. Sherrinford’s jaw flexed and he leaned forward, working his way down until his face brushed the soft patch of hair at the base. He pulled back, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucked, and he wrapped his long fingers around the slick cock, twisting slightly. Hamish moaned, and the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of Sherrinford’s mouth was vulgar and intimate. 

Sherlock watched intently, his eyes roaming between the two men. When he next looked up, he was startled to see Hamish staring straight at him. The connection sent a bolt through Sherlock, and he inhaled sharply. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, and although he was fully clothed he felt exposed; naked. 

A small sad smile quirked the corner of Hamish’s mouth, but then he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. Sherrinford’s body rocked as his hand and mouth worked. Eventually, Hamish moaned and arched his hips, grasping at Sherrinford and urging him to move faster. His pace increased and he heaved ragged breaths in through his nose, sucking and jerking until Hamish gripped his shoulder hard in warning. Hamish called out Sherrinford’s name in a keening gasp and his body shuddered. Sherrinford stilled and then slowly pulled away, and Sherlock saw him swallow wetly and then run the back of his hand across his mouth. Hamish leaned in and kissed him full on the lips. 

Sherlock looked away, and without saying a word he returned the chair to the kitchen and continued to his room, closing the door behind him. 

***

Sherlock stood in the shower until the scalding water ran cold. He cradled his face in his arm, leaning against the the cold tile as he palmed his aching cock. He jerked in fits and stops, trying to stretch out the release. When he couldn’t hold out any longer he came in his hand, biting back John’s name. 

It was too much.

It wasn’t enough.


	3. Chapter 3

John breathed a sigh of relief upon finding only one Sherlock when he returned to the flat. He hung his coat on the hook by the door and wandered into the kitchen. 

“Damn,” he said as soon as he saw the refrigerator, “I meant to stop at the shop on my way home.”

“Hamish bought milk,” Sherlock said, looking up from his microscope.

John’s face twisted into surprise. “That’s a nice change, I suppose.” He made toast and tea, and then turned to the table, strategically plotting the location least likely to contaminate his breakfast. 

“For Christ sake, Sherlock - ”

“Sherrinford,” Sherlock cut in, looking up again.

John looked at him in confusion until Sherlock turned his head, showing the long expanse of his white neck. Just below his ear was the lab tattoo. Shit. John couldn’t even tell them apart now. This was hands down his least favorite experiment. And he was including that time at Baskerville. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath. He watched as Sherrinford’s face shifted, his features settling behind a stony mask of purposeful uncaring. It was like watching a cloud blot out the sun, and John felt a small shadow fall over his heart. He pulled a second mug from the cabinet and set a second cup of tea on the table next to Sherrinford, who eyed the olive branch cautiously. They both sat sipping tea until Sherrinford finally broke the silence. 

“Why do you hurt us?”

John looked taken aback. “I just find clones to be...unsettling. That’s all. I’ll, um, try to be more…” he searched for the right word but Sherrinford shook his head slightly and then took up another track of questioning. 

“You express the most annoyance when Hamish and I are...intimate." John cringed at the word but Sherrinford continued, “Is that because you do not like the image of yourself being engaged in sexual acts with another man?”

John brushed toast crumbs off the table. “No,” he said without looking up.

“Then why are you so repulsed by our intimacy?” Sherrinford’s voice was tinged with a small sense of urgency. 

“I’m not repulsed,” John said quickly. Somehow Sherrinford managed to be just as dangerous for him as Sherlock, but in a completely different way. What he said next felt like pulling a bullet out of an old wound.

His answer was so quietly he wasn’t sure it had been be heard. Hoped it hadn’t been heard.  
“I’m jealous.” 

“Jealousy implies we have something you...desire.” Sherrinford leaned forward slightly in his chair and tilted his head to the side as he spoke slowly. “Is it because I...look like Sherlock?”

The question hung in the air between them until enough time had passed that Sherrinford took his silence as an assent. He leaned back and was lost in thought for some time. 

“Then why not pursue an intimate relationship with Sherlock?” Sherrinford asked.

John’s laugh was bitter. “He made his feelings perfectly clear. ‘Married to his work.’”

Sherrinford stood and after a moment of hesitation went downstairs and returned shortly with Hamish in tow. 

“I want to show him,” Sherrinford said.

Hamish looked sharply at John, “Are you sure?”

Sherrinford nodded and moved to sit in Sherlock’s chair. Hamish gave John a searching look, then picked up a kitchen chair and moved it into the living room, motioning John to take the seat. After a moment of looking contrary, John obliged and Hamish took his place opposite Sherrinford. 

“He watches us,” Hamish said, looking carefully at Sherrinford before turning to look directly at John. “Do you know what he wants?”

John’s mind reeled with filthy thoughts. All the things he’d imagined as he laid in bed jerking himself raw. A dirty alley and a fistful of dark curls. Cold handcuffs biting into pale wrists. Torn shirts. Barked orders. Bruises. Sherlock was brilliant and demanding and dark. What would he keep hidden away? John’s breathing was ragged and his heart pounded in his chest. 

Sherrinford slid from the chair onto his knees. He looked up at Hamish. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice was low and rough. Hamish nodded and ran his hand roughly over Sherrinford’s cheek. There was the soft noise of a zip and Hamish lifted his hips enough for his trousers and pants to slide down. Sherrinford placed gentle kisses on Hamish’s inner thigh, moving slowly up. With one final look between them, Sherrinford licked his lips and took Hamish’s cock in his mouth. 

No.

John clenched a fist to his mouth to stifle his gasp. His bitter jealousy melted into a dawning realizationg as John thought about the quiet nights he’d sat across from Sherlock. Were they always so close to this? He watched the clones, but through Sherlock’s eyes. By the time Hamish came with a sharp cry, John’s cock was hard and tears were stinging his eyes. 

Sherrinford stood and turned. John could see that his lips were soft and swollen. When he leaned close, he smelled like sex. Sherrinford whispered softly in John’s ear. 

“He thinks you’re the bravest person he knows.”

Sherrinford straightened and stepped back. John shot up from the chair, knocking it back in his haste as he bolted out of the room and up the stairs. He slammed his door and leaned back against it, gasping for breath. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing or crying.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning John waited in his room until he heard Sherlock stirring. With a resolute nod to himself he opened the bedroom door and walked down the creaking stairs. He found Sherlock lost in thought by the fireplace. 

“Hamish got milk, if you’d like some tea,” he said as he passed through. 

John made two cups of tea, taking far longer than was necessary, and finally carrying them into the living room. He offered one cup to Sherlock, who stirred from thought.

“Where’s Sherrinford?” John asked, “I thought he’d be exploring the disgusting mold progress.”

Sherlock eyed John at the use of the clone’s name. “Molly took them out for breakfast. They’re going to see that museum exhibit with the bodies.”

John smiled at the thought, but it quickly faded. He set his cup down on the table and stared at the floor. After several false starts, he cleared his throat. 

“Sherlock, I...want to say something. But I don’t want to say it, so just let me get through it, yeah?” John took a deep breath and then rushed on, “If you wanted a...relationship...I would understand. I know I’ve been harsh on the clones but it’s not what you think so if you want what they have, I want you to know that I want you to have that.” John cringed and stared at a loose thread in the carpet. When he finally looked up, Sherlock’s face was guarded. John’s resolve faltered, doubts crowding to the surface. Sherlock had never pursued anything beyond friendship, despite John’s early tentative advances, but yet he sought out a physical intimacy with the clones. What if he was wrong, and it was really Hamish that Sherlock wanted? John felt a sinking feeling in his heart, but pushed on. 

“Look I want you to be happy, and you should be. I was thinking...if you wanted another clone, another Hamish, for...for yourself…”John watched Sherlock’s face fall and the last words came out in a quiet mumble, “that would be fine. It’s all...fine.” 

Sherlock turned his face away, looking at nothing in particular. His voice was cold and distant. “No, I think not, but thank you for your blessing.“

John stared at the loose thread in the carpet again, wondering if he could pull out a piece long enough to hang himself. 

“You seem to think the ones we have are good enough for - “ John cut off, glaring at Sherlock while his angry words hung in the air. 

Sherlock’s eyes were like ice when they met John’s glare, “They are a...necessary substitute.” 

John shook his head, never taking his eyes off Sherlock. “You told _me_ you were married to your work “ he said quietly. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion, the wheels of his mind turning quickly, urgently. 

“OH!” He leaned forward excitedly, perching on the edge of his seat, “You’re wrong,” he said gleefully. “John, you think that the clones are an improvement, but you’re a violin.” 

Sherlock’s face was beaming and he gestured wildly. “A VIOLIN, John. Don’t you see?” When John shook his head in confusion Sherlock rushed on.

“You could take a Stradivarius and make an exact copy, use all the same woods and carve it to the exact measurements and assemble it with the original methods and when you play it for the first time, do you know how it will sound? Terrible! It will be a violin, yes, but it will sound hollow and muted, a pale echo of the original that’s not fit for Mozart or Tchaikovsky. To sound rich and beautiful a violin needs a lifetime of being played. It needs time and the pull of notes for the woods to settle together and resonate. The temperature and humidity shrink and swell the wood. Every crack repaired changes its voice. You can never truly reproduce a violin because you can’t reinvent the way a life shapes it.” 

A silence hung between them. The glow slowly started to fade from Sherlock’s face. 

_He thinks you’re the bravest person he knows._

John straightened his shoulders, resolute. He reached forward and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s wrist, tightened his grip slightly, and pulled. 

Almost automatically, Sherlock slid from the edge of the chair, his knees hitting the floor. 

John leaned towards him with a challenging look. “Say it.”

Sherlock’s eyes went impossibly wide. The seconds ticked by in his racing pulse, but if there was one thing John Watson was good at, it was waiting. A small eternity later, Sherlock voiced the question that had been written across his heart. 

“Is this what you want?”

It sounded dangerous, like blind alleys and explosives and loaded handguns. John gave him a crooked smile. His answer had been written in wild chases and quiet breakfasts, penned in invisible ink. Now he pulled Sherlock closer, crushing a kiss against his soft lips. 

“Yes.”


End file.
